


Helping Hands

by mickandsleepyface



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, M/M, Post-Canon, try to fix this mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-23
Updated: 2015-04-23
Packaged: 2018-03-25 10:24:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3806854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickandsleepyface/pseuds/mickandsleepyface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another post 5.12 fanfiction to fix this mess. Iggy helps out in this one and is an awesome older brother.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helping Hands

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Canonical Bipolar slurs that are not meant to be insulting, but I believe it represents the way the characters speak on the show.
> 
> Thank you so much to the wonderful Enne who helped me immensely with this.

  
  
Iggy had wanted nothing but a quiet afternoon. He wanted to drink a couple of beers, smoke a joint and probably watch some cooking show on TV.  
But when he was just halfway through his first beer, the door jumped open and in came Mickey, looking like he was chased from hell, blood dripping from his arm. Iggy jerked up.  
  
“Fuck, man, what happened?” he asked.  
“That’s a damn loaded question,” Mickey growled and made his way to the bathroom.  
Iggy sighed, grabbed his bottle and followed Mickey. He leaned against the doorframe and watched Mickey taking care of his left arm. He had obviously been shot, but it was just a grazing shot and Mickey cleaned it with trained movements.  
“Who’d you piss off?” Iggy asked and Mickey glared at him.  
“Sammi,” he simply said.  
Iggy furrowed his brows. “Who?”  
Mickey sighed. “One of the Gallagher bunch, I guess.”  
Iggy laughed. “The redhead? Shit, isn’t she like 12?”  
“15,” Mickey answered, and he hated that he knew that. “And that’s Debbie. Sammi is the blonde one, crazy as fuck, you’d probably bang her.”  
Iggy tilted his head. “Okay.”  
  
Mickey appreciated it, anybody else would have asked what he did to piss her off, would ask stupid questions, but not Iggy.  
Iggy just took the cloth from him and cleaned the spot Mickey couldn’t reach.  
Mickey sighed and let Iggy handle him. It wasn’t a good decision, he realized a second later, because now he had time to think about what had happened. About Ian’s face, Ian’s words and about the fucking sickening feeling in his stomach. It was over. He had failed. He hadn’t been good enough. He wasn’t what Ian needed.  
He felt a nudge and Iggy looked at him. “Fuck, are you crying? It’s just a graze, man.”  
Mickey wiped his face quickly. “It’s not the graze…fuck….whatever…fuck off.”  
Iggy hesitated for a second before he asked, “Something wrong with Ian?”  
Mickey tensed up and answered in a low voice, “Everything is wrong with Ian, but it’s not my shit to deal with anymore.”  
Iggy stood up and threw the cloth in the sink. “Fuck, man, you ditched him?”  
Mickey stood up and brushed past him. “No,” he said barely audible and disappeared in his room.  
  
It took Iggy a second before he realized what had happened. “Oh,” he said to himself, “shit.”  
His first instinct was to leave him alone. He sat back on the couch, turned the TV back on and sipped his beer.  
But after ten minutes he realized that he had not paid any attention to the TV and kept thinking about his little brother. “Fuck it,” he mumbled, got up and grabbed a fresh beer from the fridge before he barged into Mickey’s room without knocking.  
His brother was laying on his bed, curled up on the edge. He had knocked one of the covers to the ground, probably Ian’s, and just stared into nothingness.  
“Hey,” Iggy said and nudged him with the cold beer. He sat down on the bed without asking for permission and waited till Mickey had taken the beer from him and sat up.  
“So he dumped you?” Iggy flat out asked.  
“Yeah,” Mickey said and they both took a big gulp from the beer.  
“Want me to kill him?” Iggy asked and was dead serious.  
Mickey clenched his fist and Iggy knew it would take a long time before Mickey would not be protective of Ian Gallagher anymore.  
“No,” Mickey managed to say, “but if you could erase him from my fucking brain, that would be awesome.”  
“Well,” Iggy said and gestured towards the beer, “guess that is kind of a good way to start.”  
“Probably takes more than that though,” Mickey said.  
“I wouldn’t know,” Iggy answered and with that they kept drinking in silence.  
  
+++++  
  
The next few weeks they hardly talked. Mickey got drunk a lot and angry and frustrated and at night Iggy heard him cry. He didn’t say anything about it, because he didn’t know fuck about getting one’s heart broken. But after two months Iggy got angrier and angrier. He knew there was no end in sight and he just figured the way that things ended could not have been closure or some shit like that. So after a very difficult night with Mickey shooting more cans than usual and throwing various items at the wall he decided to do something. He got up, grabbed the box of Ian’s things Mickey had thrown out and went over to the Gallagher house.  
  
He knocked a few times, hard and loud. The redheaded girl answered. What did Mickey say her name was? Whatever.  
She raised her eyebrows at him and asked annoyed, “What do you want?”  
“Ian here?” he asked  
“Upstairs,” Debbie said with a nod to the stairs. Iggy brushed past her, went up the stairs and tried two doors before he found the right one.  
  
Ian was lying on the tiniest bed in the fucking world and for a second Iggy wondered how the fuck it had fit two people. But with that thought the anger came back and he dumped the box on Ian’s chest.  
Ian jerked up, fists at the ready and Iggy laughed.  
“You gonna fight me, Gallagher?”  
“No,” he said and his voice sounded drained, tired and somehow like it lost all color. Ian sat up, grabbed the box and put it on the floor. He looked up at Iggy and something painful went over his face, like he remembered something, Iggy thought. “Why?” Ian asked, “You gonna fight me?”  
“Probably should,” Iggy said, “but I won’t. You look like crap, by the way.”  
Ian snorted and nodded. “Well, I feel like crap as well.”  
“Don’t think I feel sorry for you, man.”  
Iggy could see a twitch in Ian’s face, a pang of guilt and even a little bit of softness and he asked in a whisper, “How’s he doing?”  
Iggy shook his head. “No, man, I’m not talking about him with you. Didn’t look like you give a shit when he was chased with a gun by your crazy sister or whatever the fuck she is.”  
Ian bit his lip. “I miss him,” he said.  
“Fuck you,” Iggy said, “if it were anybody else I would bash your head in. You don’t get to miss him, you don’t get to fucking ask how he’s doing. I don’t give a shit about your fucking disorder. That was an absolute low blow, man. The lowest blow. He turned his fucking life around for you and the second it’s not convenient to you anymore you dump his ass? Fuck you, Gallagher.”  
Ian shook his head, like he seriously wanted to disagree. He even opened his mouth.  
“No,” Iggy said, “I don’t even wanna fucking hear it.”  
He didn’t even realize that he gotten mad. But, fuck, this boy had some nerves. Nobody hurt his family like that and got away with it, much less got to feel like he was the victim.  
“Iggy,” Ian said, “just tell him I’m sorry.”  
Iggy snorted. “Tell him yourself, fuckhead.”  
He turned to leave but Ian spoke again in barely a whisper, “I was wrong, you know? He was the only one who did not think I’m broken.”  
Iggy turned again, raising his eyebrow. “Man, who the fuck do you think I am? I’m not your fucking therapist, I’m the guy who would on any other given day, bash your head in.”  
Ian smiled, the tiniest smile but it was there. “I know,” he said.  
“Listen,” Iggy said, “you fucked up and I don’t know if there is a way to undo it. I just know he didn’t ask me to get rid of your stuff, I just did. So, do what you want, but if you fuck up again, I will kill you, no matter what he tells me.”  
Ian looked at him, a small smile on his lips. “I know,” he said again.  
Iggy regretted talking to him, regretted giving him hope. Because if he was asked he would want Ian Gallagher to stay as far away from his brother as he could. These fucking Gallaghers messing with his siblings, enough was enough.  
He turned and left the room, determined to never come back and determined to make his life really hard if he ever had the balls to make things right with Mickey.  
  
He stomped down the stairs and ended up in the Gallagher kitchen with fucking Lip staring at him.  
Lip yelled, “IAN! Why the fuck is there a Milkovich in our house again?”  
Iggy had it, this fucker fucked up Mandy, he knew it, and now he made fun of his family. He made two large steps and hit Lip, quick and hard, on the nose. He heard it break and Lip yell out in pain.  
“You fucking Gallaghers think you’re better than us? We never fuckin messed with you the way you did with us. Fuck you!” he spat and then he was gone before Ian reached the kitchen.  
  
+++++  
  
It took almost a week for Mickey to realize that Ian’s box was gone. He turned the house upside down looking for it. Iggy shot him a few conspicuous looks, but Mickey ignored him.  
  
Another week later there was a knock at the door. Mickey had had a relatively good day for his circumstances. He was annoyed at the interruption, though, and opened the door with a bark. “What?”  
He stopped dead in his tracks when he saw Ian Gallagher standing on his porch like he fucking belonged there, looking ridiculously good in his winter jacket.  
Mickey was frozen in shock and that was the only reason Ian was able to speak. “Hey, Mick,” he said.  
Mickey shook his head. His vision was instantly getting blurry and Ian’s face was starting to become just a swimming spot. He had planned on never seeing him again, but of course Ian had to fuck with his plan. After the first wave of shock he felt the anger and hurt rise up and his whole body tensed, ready to shield him from anything Ian might throw his way.  
“Can we talk?” Ian asked in a low voice and Mickey snapped out of his trance. He stared at him for another second and then he just threw the door shut.  
  
He went straight for the kitchen and grabbed a beer, ignoring the knocks on the door this time. He heard the muffled “Come on, Mickey!” but didn’t respond.  
Why couldn’t he just leave him be? It had been almost three months and he had started to forget the exact structures of his face. He still saw it in his dreams and even when he was awake sometimes, but his face had gotten a bit blurry over the last couple weeks and it had been a relief. But now it was back, he saw him for ten seconds and his face was marked fresh in his brain and it hurt like hell. He turned on the TV in an attempt to drown out the knocks still coming from the door.  
  
+++++  
  
Mickey had to run an errand for Iggy a week later at the Alibi. He hadn’t been there in forever and he hadn’t seen Kev or V or any guys from the bar in just as long. He walked through the door and up to the bar and of fucking course Fiona Gallagher was sitting at the bar talking to V. She looked at him and opened her mouth, but Mickey beat her to it. “Save it,” he snapped and turned to V, “Iggy send me to pick something up from Kev.”  
V nodded. “Yeah, I know, it’s in the back, hold on, I’ll go get it.” With that she disappeared and Mickey was busy with not looking at Fiona. Fucking Gallaghers.  
  
“He’s taking his meds,” Fiona said.  
“Don’t care,” Mickey snapped, but he did, he knew it the moment he felt the relief wash over him. Ian was getting better; Ian was finally accepting that the meds weren’t a bad thing per se.  
“He talks about you a lot,” she tried again and Mickey whirled around to look at her.  
“Listen, whatever it is you think you’re doing here, stop it. I don’t wanna hear it.”  
Fiona looked at him taken aback. “Just saying…I mean…I thought…”  
Mickey had enough; he just opened his mouth to tell Fiona what exactly he thought about her brother when V turned up again. “Here you go, Mickey.”  
Mickey just snarled and snatched the bag.  
“Take care,” V said and Mickey just raised his eyebrows and was gone.  
  
When he walked back from the Alibi he spotted Ian at the far end of the road walking in his direction. Ian hadn’t seen him yet so his first instinct was to turn around or to jump in the next bush. But, fuck, this was the southside, he was bound to run into him every now and again.  
So he walked, head held high and chest out, determined to just brush past him.  
But as soon as Ian saw him he stopped and when Mickey got to him he stepped in his way. “Mick,” he simply said.  
Mickey stopped and he cursed his feet that they wouldn’t move. Well, at least his eyes were still under his demand and stared straight ahead.  
“How are you?” Ian asked.  
Mickey snorted. “Like you give a shit.”  
“Of course,” Ian said hurriedly, obviously happy that he got a response at least.  
“Well,” Mickey said and looked at him now, “let’s see, I got dumped and then shot at. I would say it’s my best year yet.”  
“I’m sorry about Sammi. I should have done something…,” Ian said in a low voice. Ian moved to touch his arm and Mickey jerked back like he burned him. He felt sick to his stomach, but more than anything else he felt the desire rise up like a fire. Fuck, he wanted Ian to touch him again, but he was getting mad at himself for that thought. He needed to get out of here quickly.  
“Fuck off,” Mickey snarled, “done is done, right?”  
And finally his feet listened to him again and he brushed past Ian.  
  
Fuck, fuck, fuck, Mickey thought as he banged the door shut. This was not getting any easier. But he couldn’t let it happen again. He had trusted him to not hurt him and he would not make that mistake again. He had let his walls down for him; he had been what Ian had seen in him a long time ago. And what did he gain? The knowledge that he was right all along and Ian had been wrong, people leave, people hurt you and you are definitely better off alone.  
  
+++++  
  
He made it quite a while without seeing Ian. But he got texts, at least twice a day, often more. They mostly just read apologies in different forms and always the question if they could talk. Mickey never responded. The texts got more personal as time moved on. Ian started to tell him what he had done that day, how he felt and always ended with that he missed him and if they could talk.  
Mickey started to rely on those texts and he hated it. But he wanted to know how he was, wanted to know how the meds worked.  
He couldn’t bring himself to answer, didn’t want to open that can of worms again.  
  
He had gotten a text twice a day now for exactly 30 days. Ian was reliable like clockwork, every morning and evening at 7.30 am and pm. This day he felt his phone vibrate while he was sitting on the Milkovich couch. He read, _“Went for a run this morning, it’s so good to work out again. Debbie complained I stink like a pig. No side effects today. I miss you. Can we talk?”_  
  
Mickey didn’t even register that he typed back and just when he hit send he cursed, “Fuck.”  
He looked at the screen and his answer. _“Why talk?”_  
He got an answer in less than a minute. _“Because I want you back”_  
Mickey shook his head, but typed back. _“Ain’t a toy you can use whenever you want”_  
Ian’s reply came just as fast. _“I know. I’ll be at the dugouts, tonight at 9, if you don’t show I’ll be there again tomorrow”_  
  
He smoked more than one joint while he watched the time tick by. When 9 came and went he wondered how long Ian would stay and wait for him. He got his answer when he got a text at 10.30. _“Okay, I’m going home now. It was nice being back here. Will try again tomorrow. I miss you.”_  
  
This was bullshit, Mickey thought. It’s not gonna work out. Ian told him he didn’t want him and his confessions and his care. Why did he change his mind? Nothing changed. He typed back. “ _Why do you even try, man? You made yourself very clear. Nothing changed. I’m not gonna change.”_  
  
Ian’s response was as quick as always. _“I changed and I will try again tomorrow. I miss you.”_  
Mickey shook his head. This was not going anywhere. He couldn’t even imagine how Ian had changed, why he had changed. Ian had pushed him from the very beginning to open up, to be free, to be true. And once he was, he got hit for being a pussy, for caring too much. Why would Ian change his opinion about him?  
He did not write anything back and was determined to never do so again.  
  
+++++  
  
Ian’s texts never stopped; in fact he got two more now. The first at 7.30 in the morning, asking him how he slept and sometimes about what Ian had dreamed about, then at 7.30 pm telling him how Ian’s day had been, and the two new ones at 9 when Ian made it to the dugout and the next one between 10.30 and 11 pm when Ian left again.  
  
One Friday night Mickey didn’t get the leaving text until way past midnight. He would never admit it to anyone ever but it made him worry. His head had provided him with endless scenarios that Ian could have been in trouble or hurt.  
He had just thought fuck it and got up to check on him when his phone vibrated. Ian was obviously drunk because the text was full of spelling mistakes. _“Fcuk, mick, just tel me waht to do, miss you”_  
Mickey bit his lip and he tried to ignore the flood of relief that Ian was okay. But this was not fixing anything and he typed back. _“Nothing, man, just leave it be, let it go”_  
Mickey had waited on the couch, but now that Ian had texted he got up and made his way to the bedroom. When he lay in bed he saw Ian’s answer. _“nevr, miss u, good ngiht”_  
  
It went on like this and Mickey felt more and more like an idiot. He didn’t want to talk to Ian, didn’t want to be vulnerable again and listen to what he had to say. But at the same time he couldn’t bring himself to completely cut him loose. It was easy as hell to get a new cellphone number but Mickey just couldn’t do it. He liked getting texts, liked knowing what was going on in Ian’s life, liked that Ian never missed one text. But he hated that he liked it, he was fucking torn and did not know what to do.  
  
++++  
  
Mickey was sitting at the back porch of the Milkovich house, drinking a beer and smoking a joint when Iggy came back from wherever the fuck he had been. He kicked him lightly while he walked past. “Hey dickhead, anymore left?”  
“Kitchen,” Mickey answered and five minutes later Iggy returned with a sixpack and more weed.  
  
He copied Mickey, drinking and smoking, and after a while Iggy asked, “So, how’s life, little brother?”  
Mickey laughed. “Seriously? You wanna have a fucking heart to heart right now?”  
Iggy took a drag and shrugged his shoulder. “Why the fuck not, man? We’re the only ones left here, might as well have a fucking talk every now and then.”  
Mickey looked at him surprised, but then shrugged his shoulders as well. “Fine, whatever. What do you wanna talk about?”  
“You over Ian yet?” Iggy asked and Mickey hit him on the shoulder.  
“Seriously, man? Why not talk about the fucking weather first?”  
Iggy laughed. “I take that as a no.”  
“Shit,” Mickey said, “I’ve been banging him for years, it takes a while.”  
Iggy nodded, like he understood, which he didn’t, because it was not about banging, that much he knew.  
  
“Well,” Iggy said, “you remember the little chocolates Mom used to bring us from work, back when she was actually working as a fucking nurse? You loved those fucking chocolates, man. You didn’t wanna admit it at first, because they came in these girly wrapping papers, but I know you always stole mine and Colin’s and even Mandy’s one time I think.”  
Mickey furrowed his eyebrows and looked at Iggy. He never talked about their mom and he didn’t get why he did now.  
“What are you getting at, man?”  
Iggy had finished his bottle and opened another one. “Man, you threw a fit when Mom wouldn’t bring them anymore. She even tried to get you other chocolate but those were all you wanted. “  
Mickey sighed, getting slightly annoyed with this trip down memory lane. “Iggy…,” he complained.  
“Alright, alright. It made no sense to you that the chocolate was gone, so you weren’t open to anything new, to try something else. You fucking asked Mom the same questions, over and over again, where the chocolate had gone and why she couldn’t bring any anymore. You needed to know, needed to make fucking sense of it. I figure it’s the same with Ian, you know? He just cut you off and now he apparently wants you back and you can’t make fucking sense of it.”  
Mickey let out a dry laugh. “Fuck, Iggy, all this for that? I know why he dumped me. He was sick of me, I was getting on his nerves.”  
Iggy nodded slowly. “Hm…,” he said, “that’s probably why he’s been texting you like old Willly down the street texts me when he needs his fix, hm?”  
Mickey made an uninterpretable noise and Iggy kicked him again.  
“I’m not saying, take him back, I’m just saying listen to what he got to say. Just for you, to get some fucking closure at least. Or maybe no closure and you do take him back, I don’t fucking know. But this is a place you’re not getting out of. If you stay like this, nothing ever fucking changes.”  
Mickey was silent. He took a big gulp from his beer and took the last drag of his joint before flipping it off the porch. He turned his head to look at Iggy. “Damn, man, who are you and what have you done with my brother?”  
Iggy hit him over the head. “Fuck off, man, take it or leave it.”  
Mickey sighed again. “He fucked me up, man,” he admitted, “I want to go back to not feeling anything so badly, but he just fucked me up. And the worst part was I didn’t see it coming. All my life I was ready for every punch; I expected every fucking punch, but not this one. I just never thought he would drop me like this. I didn’t see it coming and he hit me straight in the face.”  
Mickey was surprised by himself about this rant and he couldn’t blame Iggy for not answering. After a moment he felt his hand pat his shoulder and then Iggy chuckled and said, “Well, probably not too straight, right?”  
Mickey snorted and kicked him. “Fuck you, man.”  
Iggy laughed again and settled back with his back against the door. “You’ll figure it out, man.”  
  
Since that talk with Iggy Mickey had contemplated every damn afternoon at 9 pm to just get up and go to the dugout. He knew Iggy was right, he needed an explanation and then he needed to make a decision. But that was exactly the part he was afraid of. Why was this on him now? If it had gone like he had planned it there wouldn’t even be the need to make a decision. He would have never left Ian.  
He wanted to hear what Ian had to say, he had known that ever since he had shown up on his porch, but he feared the finality of it. If he went and talked and then realized he could not go back that would be it. No more texts, no more pictures, no more information, no more Ian. He just wasn’t ready to let that go just yet.  
  
+++++  
  
About a week after his talk with Iggy he had fallen asleep on the couch in the afternoon. He startled awake around 8 because of some fucking noise outside. He had dreamed about Ian, again, but this time it was more about the absence of Ian. Ian running away from him, Ian just leaving the room, Ian flying high up in the sky while Mickey was left on the ground. And all of a sudden he was ready. He got up, took a shower, put on a nice shirt and left the house. He didn’t hesitate anymore; he went straight to the dugout. It was a bit after nine when he arrived. He saw Ian leaning against the fence and looking his way. The sight made his stomach twist, because if Ian didn’t lie to him, he had been there every night for about a month now.  
  
He saw Ian straighten up, squinting his eyes, watching him closely. He could see the disbelief, the excitement and the relief on his face and somehow it made him feel at ease. It was a nice feeling, knowing he could still read him like that.  
Mickey stopped a few feet away from him, hands in the pockets of his jacket and he looked at him for a second before he said, “Hi. So…let’s talk.”  
Ian was very nervous, Mickey could sense it. He moved to lean against the fence on the right side of Ian and didn’t look at him.  
  
After a moment Ian started to speak. “I practiced a speech. Every night I was here and you didn’t come I changed it a bit here and there and now I don’t remember a single fucking word.”  
Ian fiddled with the pocket of his jacked with shaking fingers, finally getting a pack of cigarettes out. He lit one up, took a deep drag and handed it over to Mickey. Mickey took it without thinking and it hit him like a stone how fucking familiar this was.  
Mickey didn’t respond to Ian. He didn’t want to make it too easy for him. He was here to listen to what he had to say, not to fucking talk himself.  
  
Ian had lit another cigarette for himself and he leaned his head back against the fence before he started talking again. “Monica fucked me up. I know, it’s no excuse, but it’s the only way I can explain it. I love her, you know? She’s my mom and we share this disorder and I thought her way to deal with it wasn’t that bad. But when I ran with her I saw how she lived, how she thought that drugs and love and money was all that mattered. How she thought, the only thing that was important was to be loved. And she got this train wreck of a drug dealer as a boyfriend and I thought that this couldn’t be it. This could not be the only important thing. You have to think about the people you love, how they have to deal with you, how you treat them. I felt like you treated me like a patient. I know you meant well but it felt like a fucking wet blanket. And in my fucked up mind I came to the conclusion you didn’t know the real me, when in fact you are the only one who does.”  
  
He paused to let out a heavy sigh and to take a long drag of his cigarette. Mickey bit his lip, half of this he had already figured out by himself, that Ian had thought Mickey was seeing him as a patient, but the Monica part was new to him.  
“So,” Ian continued, “when I figured out what a complete idiot I had been, it was too late. The break-up was already done. I already blew you off and I remembered every word and I am so sorry, Mickey. You were – are - awesome and kind and caring and I threw it in your face and I am so sorry about that. I don’t know what was wrong with me, because that couldn’t all have been the disorder. I mean you can’t blame it for everything, right?”  
  
Mickey shrugged. “Don’t know,” he said, “maybe you were right and I don’t know anything about you anymore. I don’t get it, you know? I don’t really get why you broke it off and I sure as hell don’t get why you apparently want me back now?” His voice had a trace of annoyance and Ian caught on.  
  
He moved so he was able to look at him and said sincerely, “I love you.”  
Mickey shook his head. “What the hell does that even mean?”  
Ian flinched back, he recognized these words of course and they stung like hell.  
Mickey bit his lip. He didn’t want to hurt Ian, but at the same time he wanted to show him how much he had hurt him.  
“Sorry,” Mickey mumbled.  
Ian shook his head and leaned back on the fence. “I deserved that. And I wish I could explain it. I just felt like…I felt so broken, and I wanted it to stop, I wanted to have control and I probably thought the best way was to eliminate everything and everyone who reminded me of my illness. I wanted to have control over my life, you know? I wanted to be able to not feel guilty about not taking meds and I sure as hell didn’t want to disappoint you again. I know the things I said were harsh and cruel, but I just…didn’t want to let you down again and so I broke it off, rather sooner than later.”  
  
Ian stopped to light another cigarette. When he continued talking his voice sounded more broken than ever. “I’ve done so much shit, Mick, to me and to my family and especially to you. But you just wouldn’t be mad or anything. Just kept being there for me and helping me and I just felt worse and worse about it. And it didn’t make sense to me. And then after I broke it off I thought, good choice, Ian, now you can go and recreate your life, you won’t disappoint him, won’t be a burden. I thought I don’t need the meds and I would be fine. But all I thought about was you. Every single fucking day I woke up and thought about what you were doing right now. And then a couple of weeks after I broke up with you I couldn’t get out of bed. I mean, you know how it was back then and it looked pretty much the same. I wouldn’t eat; I would cry and feel really, really low. My siblings tried everything. One day Debbie came in my room and told me you were downstairs. Believe it or not I was out of the bed in less than 2 seconds. When I got down Fiona looked at me and said ‘Fuck bipolar, Ian, you just got a broken heart’.”  
Mickey had not realized how his eyes were glued to Ian. He was wondering if he had ever heard Ian talk this honestly about himself and his disorder and his feelings. Ian had always accused him for being too closed off, but now that he thought about it he had never heard Ian talk like this.  
  
“Fuck, Ian,” he said, “you know, I never thought you were broken, I always thought you needed help and I will continue to think that. I stand by what I said, you do crazy things when you’re off the meds and I will worry about you. That no longer pisses you off?”  
Ian looked at him. “I need to be the one to organize, to cope. I need to be the one worrying about my meds. It needs to be me first, you know? But I would love to have you there while I do it.”  
  
Mickey sighed and shook his head slowly. This all sounded good, like he actually took the time to think and get a new grip on his life. But he still felt like Ian could drop him again, would still realize he was not what he thought he was. He made the mistake of trusting him with his feelings once and he was not sure he could do it again.  
  
“You were the only one, you know?” Mickey said in a low voice, “I trusted you. And I never trusted anyone in my life ever. I thought no matter what, we would get through it; you would stick. You taught me that, remember? You said I wasn’t free, you said we have nothing to be ashamed off. Fuck, I believed you. And then you dump me, because I apparently care too much? I can’t go back, Ian. I can’t pretend like nothing happened. I will always wonder if I set you off again, if the thing I said was the thing that will make you dump me again.”  
  
Ian sighed like he had expected that. Mickey could feel Ian’s body tense up beside him and then all of a sudden Ian’s face was in front of his, Ian’s arms on either side of him holding on to the fence and then Ian’s lips were on his. And good fucking God, Mickey had missed this and he kissed him back and it felt like everything else was not important anymore. But then it hit him that this was not his reality anymore and he pulled back, put his hands on Ian’s chest and pushed him away a bit.  
  
“No,” Mickey said, “this was never the problem between us.”  
Ian looked at him quizzically. “What?”  
Mickey bit his lip. “Well, we already know that part works. We already know we can kiss and fuck and not talk and pretend everything is fine. But I don’t want it like that anymore.” Mickey’s voice got quiet at the end.  
“What do you want?” Ian asked and looked at him like no one ever looked at him.  
Mickey had a sentence in his head, but he hesitated. He wanted to say it differently but he couldn’t rephrase it, so he said, “I want to forget about you. Hell, wouldn’t it be so much easier if I could just get over you already? I could tell you to fuck off and that would be that.”  
Ian smiled at him, it was the tiniest smile but it was the first happy smile Mickey had seen in a long time.  
“But you can’t,” Ian said in a low voice.  
“But I can’t,” Mickey confirmed in a lower voice.  
“Let’s date then,” Ian said with new found self-esteem.  
“What?” Mickey was obviously confused.  
“Let’s date,” Ian repeated, “I’ll pick you up tomorrow at eight and we go have that steak we talked about. And then I’ll call you three days later like people are supposed to and if you liked our first date maybe we can go on a second?”  
“Seriously?” Mickey asked, eyebrows raised in disbelief.  
“Yeah,” Ian confirmed, “let’s do things differently, let’s do it the supposedly normal way.”  
„Date like normal people date?“ Mickey asked.  
„Yeah“  
„Like no sex till the third date?“  
Ian grinned. “That one is up for discussion.”  
“Like you gonna pay the bill, but I pretend to reach for my wallet?” Mickey tilted his head watching Ian.  
  
Ian kept his face open with a smile on his lips. He did not answer this time, because he didn’t want to push Mickey. It was his decision now; he was in control.  
Mickey wasn’t sure what to do. He had sworn to himself that he wouldn’t rush back into this; actually he had sworn that he wouldn’t go back into it at all. But at the same time he knew he never really wanted to not have Ian in his life. And this sounded like an idea that could work. He could still pull out if it was too much for him or if Ian showed signs of dropping him again.  
  
„Okay,“ Mickey said finally, “but no rushing this time, no messing around, no suppressed feelings and all this shit. If something bugs us we fucking talk about it and you won’t get mad if I can’t trust you right away.”  
Ian’s smile was something Mickey thought he would never see again, it was spreading all over his face.  
“Alright,” he said.  
“Alright,” Mickey answered.  
  
Mickey pushed himself away from the fence and took a few steps. He stopped and turned around to look at Ian.  
“Okay,” he said, trying very hard not to grin, “pick me up at eight then.”  
Mickey turned back around and walked away from the dugout with a new lightness in his steps.  
  
+++++  
  
Iggy had wanted nothing but a quiet afternoon. He got his sixpack and a couple of joints and a cooking show on TV. At 8 o’clock sharp there was a knock at the door. Iggy was annoyed, but since he hadn’t seen Mickey in at least a couple hours he figured he was home alone. He got up and lazily looked out the window. What he saw made him roll his eyes and he got to the door. He opened it but he blocked the entry immediately.  
  
“Seriously?” Iggy asked, “you gonna turn up here, dressed like you’re going to the fucking opera and think that will impress him?”  
Ian shot him the biggest smile. “Hi Iggy, he’s actually expecting me.”  
Iggy raised his eyebrows very high and he eyed Ian up and down. “You got some fucking nerves, ginger stalk.”  
Ian sighed. “He is seriously expecting me, Iggy, we talked. I am picking him up for a date.”  
Iggy made a face and a step towards Ian. He was smaller than Ian but it still felt like he towered over him. “If you fuck him up again I will end you,” Iggy snarled.  
  
In that moment Mickey turned the corner, dressed up nicely and nudged Iggy in the shoulder. “It’s alright.” He grinned. “I got this.”  
Iggy took a step back but he still stood in between Mickey and Ian. But now he looked at Mickey, not at Ian. “You sure?” he asked in a low voice.  
Mickey smiled at him and whispered, “I always knew which chocolates I like best.”  
Iggy grinned, hit him on the shoulder and stepped aside to let Mickey through.  
He watched Ian and Mickey practically skipping down the stairs and shook his head.  
“Hey,” he yelled after them, “have him home before midnight!”  
He laughed when they both simultaneously flipped him off.


End file.
